


Just Like Heaven

by Lacerta26



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Swearing, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta26/pseuds/Lacerta26
Summary: Fergus and Adam agonise over who to invite to their wedding.
Relationships: Adam Kenyon/Fergus Williams
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	Just Like Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> A spot of silliness!
> 
> I was amusing myself with a daydream about how everyone would behave at Fergus and Adam's wedding. Then I realised they'd absolutely not want to invite a single one of their awful acquaintances - this is them disagreeing about it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading ^_^

Adam taps his pen against the scrubbed wood table and looks in despair at the heavy cardstock invitations spread out in front of him. Anyone normal would say they were white but they had some ridiculous, fanciful name at the stationers, _baby’s breath_ or _corpse cock_ or something. The text is straightforward, sans serif and to the point:

_Adam and Fergus request the pleasure of your company to celebrate their marriage_ _at_

_7.00pm on 15th September 2017_

There’s a space at the top of each card for them to add in the guests' names and Fergus is currently slumped over a list of politicians and advisors, journalists and at least one person who’s done time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. 

They don’t want to invite a single one of them. 

Getting out of politics is the best thing either of them have ever done; both for Fergus’s blood pressure and for their ongoing enjoyment of each other’s company. Except they could never leave it totally alone, could they? Fergus marched straight into a consultancy position at a top level lobby group for Green Energy and after a book deal, a column in the guardian and a widely praised appearance on Question Time Adam has found himself to be something of an unlikely minor celebrity. 

Fergus insists this has absolutely nothing to do with his intelligence or his hard work and is only because he’s forthright and handsome in a silver fox sort of way. The tweets he occasionally prints out and sticks around the house following one of Adam’s rare television appearances appears to bear this theory out; _they might be frothing for you on twitter, love, but I’m the one who gets to suck your cock._

All in all, even though Fergus hasn’t been an elected official for over two years, it does mean there is a stirring of interest about their forthcoming nuptials. The actual ceremony will be a low key event at City Hall with Fergus’s mum and dad, Adam’s sister and his brother-in-law but they’re doing a proper bash for the reception, largely an excuse to get absolutely twatted with their mates from uni, and there’s no way the guest list won’t be found out somehow. Quite a lot of their friends are journalists and absolutely not above sniffing out a story at a wedding. If anything is found wanting Kirsty Wark will be asking him about it next time he’s on Newsnight. 

Once they’re Mr and Mr Kenyon-Williams, if he manages to convince Fergus that’s the way forward with their surnames, they can get on with their lives but for now they have to decide on canapés and buttonholes and which of their acquaintances it’s worse _not_ to invite to their wedding reception. 

Fergus looks up morosely from the list and pulls a face of tortured resignation, ‘right then; Glenn? We have to invite Glenn, surely?’ 

‘If we invite Glenn we’ll have to invite Terri. They still talk to each other on facebook. And if we invite Terri we’ll have to have a plus one for her husband.’

‘Fine,’ Fergus quite aggressively puts two ticks next to their names on his list, ‘but we’re not inviting Robyn are we?’ 

‘God no, I’d rather have all my fucking toenails extracted than make conversation with Alice In Blunderland.’

‘Right, good,’ Fergus crosses her off the list, ‘Phil and Emma are out. Not that they’d come.’

‘I don’t know, I’d quite like to rub my newly wedded bliss into Phil’s sad, single fucking face.’

Fergus looks briefly beatific at the thought but even given the collapse of the Coalition and after Fergus lost the election they didn’t part with Phil on good terms, as if that could ever have been possible. The words odious cunt may have been thrown in Phil’s direction and Adam might have snapped his lightsaber over his knee on their way out of the office. 

‘Not worth it. Angela?’

‘Yeah, gonna have to invite her. We know too many of each other’s secrets.’

Fergus gives him a withering look, he's heard most of Adam's stories by now but there's always something he's forgotten to come clean about, ‘like what?

‘She knows I might have done something slightly illegal to break that Labour peerages story in 2006 and she definitely has a photocopy of my arse from the Christmas party the last year we were both at the _Mail_ together.’

‘And what? You’ve got pictures of her minge on a harddrive somewhere have you?’ 

‘No, but I might have some emails from an MP with a wife and three kids that make Fifty Shades look tame.’

‘Fine, christ, did you have to be quite such an evil bastard?’

‘They were guilty! It was my duty to expose it!’ 

‘Well, yeah, but Angela’s sex emails? Why do you even have those?’

Adam knows he’s rather dug himself into a hole here and can’t look anything but guilty while he attempts to organise the invites into neat piles.

Fergus sees through his obviously unnecessary shuffling of paper immediately, ‘what?!’

‘I might have...helped her write them.’

‘Jesus, fuck, Adam!’ 

The way Fergus actually manages to throw his hands up in despair at revelations of Adam’s previous twattery will never not be charming but right now isn’t the moment to laugh at him, however fondly. 

‘Do you know how fucking soul destroying the night shift at the _Mail_ was? We had to get our kicks somewhere.’ 

‘Not by sending soft porn to MPs, Christ.’

‘It wasn’t that soft.’

‘Were you?!’ 

Adam gives him a scathing look, ‘yes, darling.’ 

He would need both hands to count the number of times they got up to something not quite appropriate at the DoSAC offices, late at night or early in the morning, and on one memorable occasion in a stationary cupboard at lunchtime. Fergus looks like he’s remembering too and coming to a conclusion about glasshouses and stones. 

‘Oh, fuck off. You’re reading some of it to me later.’ 

‘It would be my pleasure.’

Adam doesn’t mention, as evidenced by his use of the word minge, that Fergus barely knows his way around the female anatomy and wouldn’t enjoy it anyway because promise of a bit of dirty talk seems to have mollified him as he goes back to the list.

‘OK, Peter?

‘We are _not_ inviting Peter.’

‘We worked with him for 5 years, Adam, I was his junior minister.’

‘Imagine how it will look if we invite Peter Mannion MP, pheasant fucking, bastard siring, top hatted Tory wankstain to our wedding reception.’

‘Why? Worried all your little fans will go off you? Ruin your reputation with Gay Lib?’

‘It’s not just my credibility that’ll be damaged, you prick. And I’m not gay am I.’

‘Bisexual Lib then,’ Fergus kicks him gently under the table, ‘he was fairly decent to us, in the end.’ 

Adam does feel a little bad. After he’d mentioned off hand in one of his regular columns that he and Fergus were planning to get married one of the hacks at _The Sun_ had got hold of it, quite a surprise given he’s certain most of them can’t read, and it was all over the tabloids before you could say _2013_ _Marriage Act._ They even brought up the old accusation that he was only Fergus’s Special Advisor because they were fucking; if only they had been things might have been more straightforward. Peter had sent them a tasteful, but clearly expensive, bouquet and, more to Adam’s taste, a bottle of scotch as congratulations. The implication that he considered Fergus and Adam getting married to be of equal standing to his own lovechild scandal notwithstanding, the scotch had been delicious, and, much to their surprise, he had actually written the card himself rather than delegating the sincerity to an intern.

‘It’s not like he’ll actually show up,’ Fergus reasons. 

‘Fine, but if your little Green Party minions refuse to talk to you after it’s not my fault.’

‘He’ll send us a good present.’

Adam chews on the end of his pen and considers the more expensive items on their gift registry. They’re in their forties, well paid and in the pink but that is absolutely not going to stop them milking the generosity of their equally loaded friends and, perhaps in this case, enemies. 

‘Fair point.’ 

Decision on Mannion made, Fergus gets on with dispatching the majority of Adam’s ex- _Mail_ colleagues and the rest of the DoSAC contingent with a decisive air as Adam gets up to make them both a cup of tea. 

‘I think we should invite Julius,’ he says with his back turned to the room, focused on the kettle’s frenetic boiling. 

‘Nicholson?!’

‘I know you don’t like him,’ he concedes as he turns around to face the kitchen table, not quite making eye contact. 

Fergus visibly seethes but he doesn’t say anything. 

‘Nothing _actually_ happened,’ it’s been such a long time that Adam is slightly irritated to be automatically jumping to his own defence. 

‘It _nearly_ did though, didn’t it. We were only just broken up and you thought it might be fun to fuck a peer of the realm. And his husband!’

‘I, briefly, in a moment of coke induced weakness, might have deigned to let his husband wank me off within his eyeline. But it didn’t happen. Besides I know for a fact that at that very same party you sucked off that policy wonk from Transport.’

Fergus looks chastened, ‘call it even?’

‘Barely,’ Adam snipes but he smiles softly, endlessly enamoured by Fergus’s indignation, his covetousness over Adam’s time and attention. It has always been thus. It’s how they ended up here. 

‘Do we have to invite him?’ Fergus says sharply and it’s nothing to Adam to give him what he wants. 

‘Not at all.’

Fergus ticks Julius’s name on the list, ‘good. I’m going to make sure he’s looking right at us every time I snog you.’

Adam sets down Fergus’s cup of tea in front of him then puts his warm hand on Fergus's cheek to tilt his face upwards, ‘I’d expect nothing less.’

The kiss is filthy, all tongue and dangerous intent and Fergus leaning into him, yearning, but they have work to do so Adam disengages before he really wants to, ‘who’s next?’

'Stewart?'

'Absolutely not.'

‘Michael?’

_‘Fuck_ no.’ 

Once the entirety of the Liberal Democrats, past and, increasingly in embarrassingly low numbers, present, are expunged from the list by a single sweep of Fergus’s pen there’s only one name left: Malcolm Tucker.

Unbelievably, even to himself, Adam had been the first to interview Malcolm post-incarceration and it has long since been the defining moment of his career. In his drunker moments he’s been inclined to call it his own _Frost/Nixon_ but that’s only because he’s a wanker when he’s pissed. He knew he was being played, a foothold at the start of Malcolm’s slow climb back to the top, but in a manner bordering on the Shakespearian Adam had managed, almost single handedly, to recast him as a tragic figure, undeserving of the opprobrium leveled against him and worthy of a second chance. The resultant attention and opportunities meant he was able to buy this house in Dulwich and live comfortably in the knowledge that Malcolm _Fucking_ Tucker owes him a favour. 

‘Do you think he’d come?’ says Fergus, a frown appearing between his eyebrows, signalling as clear as day that he’s out of his depth. Malcolm had come round to their old flat for the interview and Fergus had gone out because, in his words, _I’ll shit myself if I have to look him in the eye._

‘I doubt it.’ 

Adam hasn't spoken to Malcolm since and at the time it was pure expediency; Adam was familiar and a rising star among the political commentariat, Malcolm is an old queen and a conniving bastard; what better combination to give them both a helping hand back into the unreal world of press and politics. They're peas in a pod, really.

‘How would that look, though, if he did?’

‘Everyone knows I did that interview, it wouldn’t be a surprise.’ 

‘Still, it would be like intentionally inviting Darth Vader to breathe heavily all over the cake,’ says Fergus. 

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Let him wank you off as well, did you?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Look, he won’t even come but we should invite him.’ 

Why he's sees fit to defend him Adam isn't really sure. Maybe he fell for his own hyperbole more than he'd thought. Maybe he's just curious. The word on the grapevine is that Malcolm has mellowed in his old age and Adam would quite like to see that with his own eyes because he just can't bring himself to believe it. Fergus clearly doesn't share his curiosity. 

‘For fuck’s sake why are we even considering inviting people we don’t like to our wedding? Can’t we just elope?’ 

‘Your mum would actually kill us.’ 

Malcolm Tucker might be scary but he has nothing on Mrs Williams and her terrifying devotion to her only son and his soon-to-be-husband. Adam never had that sort of relationship with his parents; to be included in Mrs Williams' adoration is wonderful and it scares him shitless. He almost certainly can't live up to it but he’s grateful he’s allowed to try. 

Fergus slumps again, his forehead to the tabletop and mutters, barely audible, ‘why are we doing this?’

Adam takes his hand, ‘look, it’s just a party and we’re in charge. We can fuck off out of it whenever we like and leave them all to make tits of themselves at the free bar. The important bit will already be done.’

‘I thought the important bit was what came after?’ says Fergus into the table. 

Adam frowns. They aren’t even really going on a honeymoon, not straight away, because he has a few TV apparences lined up and Fergus is working on an important report for the Renewable Energy Foundation. 

Fergus looks up at him and must see his bemused expression because he grins in that lopsided way of his and pulls Adam in for another kiss, ‘I mean the rest of our lives, you fucking idiot.’  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://lacerta26.tumblr.com)


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